


Elenya

by parttimestoryteller



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, LOTR, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Phanfiction, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parttimestoryteller/pseuds/parttimestoryteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord of the rings AU!! (bc it’s about bloody time @phandom) A stable boy from Rohan with a sword thrust into his hands meets a Galadhrim Elf head-on in the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Phil finds himself saving young Dan time and time again, but before the battle ends Dan will find his feet (and his sword grip) and return the favour. Can a light spark in the darkest of nights?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The View from the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the phandombigbang 2015 on tumblr  
> Beta: cityofphanchester  
> art by daninater can be found on tumblr

Grey rain fell on grey cloaks that moved swiftly and almost silently through the shadows. When they reached the edge of the trees, they halted. Their cloaks made them almost invisible, the colour hard to define. Grey in twilight and almost black in the dark of the night beneath the trees, but green when moved or brown as fields or dusk-silver under the stars. The elves looked out at Deeping Coomb and the tall, imposing wall of the Dike, stretching outwards in either direction.

Hushed voices at the head of the column slipped into the swoosh of the whispering trees, then Haldir gave the command and they moved forwards once more.

The night air was eerily still and crackling with electricity. It was going to rain, and maybe there would be lightning. But it seemed that, like the elves and the men waiting with steamy breath and pounding hearts inside the Hornburg, the sky was bristling for a fight.

The causeway made little noise beneath the elves’ light feet and the huge, wooden doors swung open hastily as men rushed out to greet them, the relief apparent in their wide eyes. On the battlements, hundreds of eyes craned to get a view of the imposing company. For many, it was their first sighting of an elf, for these had been stricken times, with travel between realms not so free as it once might have been.

“They’re so tall,” Josur whispered. “They make you look almost normal, Dan.”

“Yeah, that and the pointy ears.” Grimme added.

Dan was silent. Josur and Grimme, broad-shouldered, experienced, confident, could make idle jokes at Lord Haldir’s forces, but the sword at Dan’s belt hadn’t left its sheath in the three years he’d owned it, and sound of brazen Orc horns distant on the horizon left no room for humour.

“Are those two girls?!” Josur said in hushed surprise.

“Which ones?!” Grimme, shorter and stouter than the other two boys, pushed Dan aside to get a closer look.

“Those ones, the blondes. Actually those other ones, too. Do you see? They have ponytails. But they’re very long. And that one has braids, I think. I can’t see because of the helmets.” Josur balanced on his toes eagerly as he watched the elves sweep over the causeway. There was a grin on his face but his skin was pale and his lower lip trembling slightly.

The atmosphere on the wall was electric with nervous excitement. The hosts of Isengard were not yet visible, and the arrival of the elves had lifted the spirits of the men momentarily from helpless doom to jubilation and, perhaps, a little real hope.

“They’re all male,” Grimme snorted contemptuously, rolling back onto his heels and moving out of the way again. He was tense and snappy.  A motionless rock beside Josur’s jumpy, wiry figure. “They’re soldiers. You don’t get girl soldiers, even with elves. They just have silky hair. Owing to the fact that they’re elves, you shit shoveller.”

“I don’t know why you insist on using that as an insult,” Dan said mildly. “That’s literally what we do. All day. We work in a stables.” Dan, in turn, was doing his utmost to remain still and blank. The panic would come, as sure as the incoming tide of darkness that sped towards Helm’s deep, but for now he was hoping that by presenting a face of calm his body would follow suit.

Grimme let out a huff of hot air and turned back to the battlements as the last of the elves filed through the doors. “Let’s face it though, Dan, next time I use a shovel it will be to dig your grave. You shouldn’t be here.”

Dan shivered. The excitement of the elves wore off as quickly as it came and the mood was suddenly sombre. The Galadhrim Company was a most welcome addition to the few hundred fighters defending the Deep, but if word of the oncoming orc host was to be believed then there weren’t nearly enough of them.

“Did you hear the latest?” Josur said, his fingers dancing nervously over his sword hilt. “The last scouting party are back. It’s not just the scary massive Uruks that Saruman’s been cooking up special, there are wild men too. From Dunland. They make the total to maybe ten thousand.”

“And how many of us again?” Grimme asked grimly.

“Well, let’s just settle on ‘less than ten thousand’ and maybe we can die with our pants unsoiled.” Josur said.

Many men chose silence upon the wall as they waited for what the night would bring, and if it weren’t for his two friends Dan would have joined them. He didn’t have much to say. All he had was the intense, swelling dread in his stomach. He was going to die tonight. He could see no other outcome. He had never learnt to bear sword or bow, but even if he had, what hope was there? An army of ten thousand were approaching, strong, powerful monsters bred for the very purpose of war with more skill with a sword in their little fingers than Dan had in whole body. He was going to die fast and without grace.

There was a commotion towards the stairs and the three boys fought to stay together as men moved quickly, making space for the elf archers at the battlements.

“They want us to move downstairs,” Josur shouted above the bustle as he was shoved to one side by a burly giant of a man wearing what seemed to be potato sacks. Josur was thin and wiry, and had a fleeting look in his wide, brown eyes that were constantly darting from side to side like a hare caught in a trap. “No room for non-archers up here anymore, not now with the elves.”

“I just want to see them,” Grimme said, frustrated, as he jumped awkwardly trying to see above the tall heads now making their way silently to the stone wall. “I don’t want to be stuck down in some hole, listening to the sounds of people dying and screaming and walls breaking and a battle raging not to see any of it till it bursts through the door I’m protecting and tries to kill me. I don’t think I can bear it. Just waiting and getting more and more scared while we all panic.”

“Well, your wish is my command.” Dan said quietly, pulling Grimme by the arm to a mismatched stone in the wall they were now pressed against and helping him climb up and balance.

The orange glow at the top of the Dike had grown significantly since they’d been at the wall, and now there was a line of black silhouetted against the torches cresting the hill.

Grimme was very still. “They look like ants.” He whispered.

“Yeah, scary, killer, rip-your-limbs-from-your-body-and-feast-on-your-raw-flesh ants. I know the ones.” Josur muttered, standing next to Dan.

Dan pulled anxiously at the sleeves of his chainmail where it chafed a little way up his wrists. It was too short for his long limbs and tall frame, but a little too broad for his narrow chest and shoulders. It had been his father’s, and it was probably a better fit than any of the other rusty contraptions in the armoury. Dan was tall but had not yet grown into a stature that matched his height.

“You know,” Josur said suddenly, tucking his straggly blond hair back under his helmet where it had fallen in front of his eyes. “We could probably stay here, help with the catapults and shifting rock like we were supposed to. No one has seen us. It’s madness, I think the party we were with has already left. Let’s face it, the closer we are to these elf guys the better the chance we have of making it out alive.”

Grimme grunted in agreement and Dan was happy to oblige. Both he and Josur were carrying slingshots and Grimme’s strength would certainly be useful when it came to heaving the heavier rocks over the battlements. Dan knew he’d have no chance in close combat, but he had shot a few arrows growing up and here he would be far from the action and unable to really see the results of his feeble attacks.

Each man dealt with the chilling call of war in a different manner. Some cracked high pitched jokes while their friends clouted them around the ear for speaking, others paced impatiently, champing at the bit. In a battle there was no time for thinking and no spare second for fear, but it was the waiting for a battle that would come with all the certainty of the waxing moon and rising sun that truly tested a man. To the left of the three boys, an archer with silver hair and wrinkled, weather worn skin was mumbling to himself under his breath in a stream of words too swift to decipher.

The orc horns could be heard loud and ringing now as they crawled down the Dike like a cascade of spiders, and suddenly it began to rain.

“Well,” Josur said as a strike of lightning lit up the full force of Saruman’s army in a moment of intense and violent terror. “How about a joke to lighten the mood?”

Grimme turned to Josur with raised eyebrows and flared nostrils, as if daring him to continue.

“Which side of a horse has the most hair?” Josur asked. “The outside.”

*

The Dike was boiling and crawling with black shapes, some squat and broad, some tall and firm, with high helms and sable shields. In the darkness, Josur’s hand gripped Dan’s shoulder, and Grimme hopped from one foot to the other trying to see. It was like a horrible game. The night was too dark to make out anything so far away, but when lightning smote down upon the Eastern hills they were there - a little closer with each crack of light. Dan swallowed, and began to count slowly upwards in an effort to control his racing heart.

Tale of the unfolding scene was seeping its way back through the waiting watchers in whispers.

“They’re over the Dike and through the breach.”

“Ladders and catapults and towers on wheels.”

“They’re so big-”

“How can they be so fast?”

“Ten-thousand at least.”

“We’re all going to die.”

The dark tide flowed up the walls from cliff to cliff. Thunder rolled in the valley. Rain came lashing down.

Arrows thick as rain came whistling over the battlements, and fell clinking and glancing on the stones. Some found a mark. A man, tall and proud, fell down dead at Dan’s feet, his blue eyes frozen wide open. Dan jumped backwards, shaking, and the three boys slunk back to the wall, scaling to stone to watch from a safer vantage point.

“The armour is weak at the neck, and beneath the arm!” An officer was shouting as he jogged, his voice straining to carry over the pounding of the rain. He repeated his cry in Elvish and then in Rohirric. “Show them no mercy!”

The elves were silent statues of calm as they waited, bow strings taught. Already, a low voice was crying.

Then at last a cry of rage and command went up all along the wall and a storm of arrows met the enemy, and a hail of stones. They wavered, broke, and fled back; and then charged again; and each time, like the incoming sea, they halted at a higher point.

The three stable boys were working now, their breath hot and hitched and their hearts racing as they shifted stones from the great piles gathered along the wall. A gap appeared at the battlements and Dan ran forwards with a cry, flinging a small stone hard and fast from his slingshot. He could not see if it had hit its mark, for already he was running back to fill up his pouch.

The wall was narrow. Hot, jostling bodies pressed together, threatening to push each other off the edge. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and fear.

“The front line is heavily armoured. Aim further back!”

“Volley!!”

“Aim for the ladder bearers!”

“Aim for the officers!”

“Left-”

“Grappling hook!”

Josur had retrieved the bow and quiver from a fallen soldier and now stood in the second row, trembling from head to toe but firing straight with focused, steely eyes. His lower lip was wobbling, but his hands were not.

“Ormod, your left!” A man screamed as the first Orc came flying over the battlements.

“Cut the ropes!”

“Push!”

Dan cast his eyes around. He was not strong, and already he was starting to tire from shifting the heavy rock. Perhaps he would be a waste of arrows, but he was about to become a waste of space.

An elf had fallen near where Grimme was working and Dan approached hesitantly. Would it be considered a great insult to strip the corpse of the bow and some arrows? A elf shoved past to the stair carrying a man. Dan knew nothing of elven culture, and even in death the creature looked mighty and proud.

Another elf ran in front of him, this one with hair as black as the screaming night, and stooped down to the fallen archer. He closed the elf’s eyes, said something Dan couldn’t catch, and slipped the sleek bow gently out of his long fingers. The dark-haired elf turned to Dan.

“You need this?” He said in the common tongue, and Dan could only nod meekly in response, finding himself suddenly tongue tied. There was something incredibly imposing and intimidating about the elves, not least this one’s piercing blue eyes.

“Thank you,” Dan finally whispered. “And- I’m sorry.”

The elf nodded as he straightened up. He began to turn away, before turning back. “Do you know how to use it?” He asked uncertainly. “I don’t mean to offend. I’ve never used a man’s bow, they might be different.”

Dan blinked. “Um. I don’t know. I’ve never used an elf bow. It’s very light.” He sounded slow and stupid, his voice rough and heavy while the elf’s voice seemed to slip like a sing-song stream over smooth stones, lilting up and down as if in joyous melody.

They were Galadhrim elves, and of course Dan had heard the tales of the beautiful and powerful Lady Galadriel. Did all the elves from Lothlorien possess the same qualities? Dan felt as if he were trapped in a bubble, frozen in the elf’s glacial blue stare, when all around him a wild and perilous battle raged.

“Quickly, come this way.” The elf lead Dan out of the way of the archers, his hand little lighter than a feather on Dan’s shoulder.

The bows of men and elves were indeed made in the same fashion, but the craftsmanship was vastly different. The bowstring sung in the elf’s long, slender fingers, his hands gliding over the supple wood where Dan fumbled with rough, clumsy fingers. He would swap the long elf-bow for a Rohan made bow and quiver the first chance he got, Dan decided. This weapon was too noble and beautiful for a stable boy. The very wood seemed to be shimmering.

“Are you an archer?” The elf asked uncertainly, and Dan shook his head.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t really have any training, actually. We’re just short on numbers. They need all the help they can get, even if I’m just throwing stones at the Orcs.”

“A well-aimed stone can prove just as effective as an arrow if it hits its mark.”

Dan’s cheeks blushed crimson. “I’ll put it back. I’m sorry. I just wanted to do something useful.”

The elf pulled Dan out of the way of two stumbling bodies. A man and an Orc locked in combat, steel flashing. “You misunderstood me,” he said, breathing fast as he manoeuvred them through the press of bodies. “Sometimes the subtleties of language are lost in translation, I meant only to assure you that your place up here was of great value to your people and mine alike.” They had found their way back to the edge now, and Dan shivered as he looked out upon the battle. “Come,” the elf said quietly, gesturing to their left. “The best way to improve is with practice. Join your friend. An elven bow is a powerful weapon, but to fight alongside a brother gives you far greater strength.”

It seemed the hypnotic quality of the elf could come in useful in times like these, for Dan, still reeling from the encounter, was too overcome with awe to feel any fear as he charged forwards to draw his arrow at Josur’s side.


	2. Inside the Hornburg

The stars that speckled the sky were beginning to fade and the sinking moon shone bright, but the light brought little hope to the Rohirrim. The tide of black before the gates seemed only to be swelling, and still the waves poured up from the valley through the breach. Against the Deeping wall the hosts of Isengard roared like the sea. The three boys worked like machines, loading the catapults, launching, and reloading. Grappling hooks were flung over the parapet faster than men could cut them or throw them back. More than once, the evil black spike caught a man instead of stone and sent him tumbling down into the writhing black shallows below where the dead and broken were piled like shingle in a storm.

Dan, Josur and Grimme had managed to stay close together through most of the battle, but now the men of Rohan were weary and every arrow was spent. The catapult had stopped singing, and the boys had been ordered to either rally down below to fight with swords and knives, or collect stones and arrows and cart them back up to the battlements. Neither seemed a thrilling prospect, tired were their limbs and aching were their backs.

They sat at the top of the stair, sharing a water skin and trying to force their eyes to remain open. Two men stood by the wall, leaning wearily on their swords and looking up at the pale moon.

“This is a night as long as years,” the dark-haired man said, his voice caught on the chill wind and carried to the boys’ listening ears. “How long will the day tarry?”

“Same,” said Josur in an undertone, yawning. “But I don’t want day. I want a dark night and a nice warm hole to curl up in and go to sleep.”

“You could go to the caves,” Grimme suggested with a smirk. “It’ll be warm in your mother’s arms.”

“But warmer in your mother’s-”

“Shh,” Dan said. “I’m listening to the fancy lords over there. They might say something interesting.”

“Dawn is ever the hope of men.” The dark-haired man’s voice drifted to their ears. He was speaking in the common tongue, though he was now joined by two guards of the Meduseld.

“Or something depressing. I’d rather not know.” Grimme said, scratching the straw coloured stubble that grew at his chin.

A blare of trumpets interrupted both conversations, and the boys started, jumping up and running to look over the wall beside the three men. There was a crash and a flash of flame and smoke. A moment of silence, and then the waters of the Deeping-stream poured out hissing and foaming: they were choked no longer, for a gaping hole was blasted in the wall.

Grimme swore loudly and vehemently and Josur clapped his hand to his mouth. By their side, the men exclaimed and flounced.

“Devilry of Saruman!” cried the bearded, dark-haired fellow. “They have lit the fire of Orthanc beneath our feet!”

“He should join the ballet, that one,” Grimme muttered as the tall man leapt away, but even as he was talking a scream went up from below. The enemy surged and a hundred ladders were raised against the battlements.

Josur and Grimme swore in unison as they drew their swords, and Dan shakily followed suit. A ladder crashed into the wall directly in front of them and the two young soldiers charged forwards, only to flee backwards as a swarm of arrows whistled past their ears.

Dan cast his eyes around, panicked. There were very few fighters left on this stretch of the wall.

A ghastly, black hand appeared on the top rung of the ladder. Josur darted forwards, swinging his sword and relieving the Orc of a few fingers. Dan’s sword felt like rubber in his hands.

There was no time even for panic. Josur’s eyes were fixed in horror on the first black blood to stain his sword and now it was Grimme’s turn, crossing blades with a huge Orc who’d have had Josur’s head had Grimme not shunted him aside with his shield.

The Orc was bigger and heavier and far more skilled with a sword than the short Rohan boy. He was pushing Grimme back towards the edge where more Orcs were now climbing. Without thinking, Dan charged forwards with Josur at his side. It took three of them, stout blades swinging wildly, to bring down the Orc. By the time they had finished there were three more coming towards them.

“Fall back!”

A group of elves who had been manning the wall to the east were sprinting like the wind towards the stairwell, Rohirrim stragglers in hot pursuit. All around them the cry sung as men and elves fled like rats to the safety of the keep.

An Orc, that seemed almost as broad as Grimme was tall, was between Dan and his escape route. It leered at the teenager, revealing a wide set of yellow, pointed teeth. As it took a step closer it raised its scimitar slowly, clearly enjoying the terror across Dan’s face. In response, Dan brought his sword up in front of him. There could be no doubt that this Orc was preparing to take Dan’s head off in one smooth swing.

Dan darted forwards with all the speed of pure terror. He jabbed his sword desperately then twisted to the side. His attack hadn’t seemed to make any impact on the Orc. It moved impossibly fast as it charged.

The tall Orc had Dan by the neck in its foul grip. Dan was lifted off the ground, powerless and choking. The Orc shook him once, twice, and then it seemed as if it was going to shake Dan to death. All vision was lost as his head heaved and his bones smashed into each other from his toes to his skull. Then suddenly the shaking had stopped and the Orcs eyes were bulging wide just millimetres from his own. Slowly, almost comically, the Orc keeled over and fell backwards to land on the flagstones with Dan on top of it.

A strong hand grabbed Dan’s shoulder and pulled him up, dragging him forward as the elven owner of the slender fingers ran. Dan was fighting for breath. They joined the clamour of pounding feet, a few men and elves bringing up the rear with a furious assault on the attacking Orcs.

Over and under the wall the attack came sweeping live a dark wave upon a hill of sand. There were riders being forced back step by step towards the caves, but Dan found himself joining the surge cutting their way back to the citadel.

A broad stairwell climbed from the Deep up to the Rock and the rear-gate of the Hornburg. Dan and the elf were some of the last to flee to safety before the heavy doors shut fast behind them with a clang of wrought iron.

“Are you hurt?” The elf’s voice was soft like whispering leaves.

“I don’t think so,” Dan said, his own voice hoarse. He pressed his hands tentatively to his throat, massaging his neck. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

“As any decent man or elf would have. You were brave, if ill-placed, with your attack. You hold that sword like it does not belong to you.”

“That was the first time I’ve ever tried to use it.” Dan admitted. He looked at the shimmering blade, still clasped tight under his white knuckles, with distaste, and thrust it back into its sheath.

“It is as if it burns you,” The elf observed. “You don’t like to fight.”

“No.” Dan said shortly. “We played with wooden swords when we were children, and we’ve mucked about in the armoury with the great swords sent there to be sharpened. I’ve held swords before, and swung them. But never that one.”

“There is a story behind your eyes. If we are to wait out a siege in this dark hall then what better time to tell it? Now is for rest and for tales.” The elf’s gaze was intense and sincere, and Dan found himself unable to hold it for more than a few seconds.

“There’s no story, really,” Dan said awkwardly. “It was my father’s when he was training. He wanted me to join him in the army. I didn’t want to be a soldier. I think it upset him, but he insisted on giving me the sword anyway. It’s just been a constant reminder in my bedroom ever since that I’ll never be my father and I’ll never be the son he wanted.” Dan felt very stupid talking about his childish insecurities to such a noble creature. This elf was probably many hundreds of years old and had seen great battles and great empires and great lords of Middle Earth. Did elves have family the way men did? Perhaps Dan’s trivialities were incomprehensible to this warrior.

“That is a hard burden to bear,” the elf said gently. “but one borne in vain. You do not need to become your father for him to love you. That is the coward’s choice, and you are not a coward.”

Dan wasn’t sure he agreed, but he kept silent. He had felt cowardly when he had filled with relief knowing he’d be able to join his mother in the safety of the caves, and more cowardly still at the regret and horror he could not shift when he had chosen instead to fight. He had felt cowardly when the Orc had charged at Josur and he had frozen rigid instead of leaping to his defence alongside Grimme.

“In doing what was expected of you, your father could never have been impressed, only satisfied,” the elf carried on. “The only way to make him proud is to do something that he did not expect you to do. Follow the path that you believe is right, not the one set out in front of you. That is true bravery.”

Dan blinked. The elf’s words seemed too high and too honourable and more than a little out of place for a stable boy from Rohan. Already a flush was rising in Dan’s cheeks.

The elf smiled kindly. “Come, I see your friends. Let us go to them.”

Dan felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. He hadn’t even thought about Josur and Grimme, or what fate might have befallen them after the Orc had attacked Dan. He hurried forwards, his eyes wide as he took in Josur sprawled out on the floor and the red gleam of wet blood.

“Jos, you egg,” he muttered, dropping to his knees beside the chestnut-haired boy. “What happened?”

“I got stabbed!” Josur grinned, and Grimme rolled his eyes.

“It’s barely a scratch,” Grimme said, but Dan could see the concern in his eyes.

“May I?” The dark-haired elf joined Dan on the floor as he delicately pulled aside the rags that covered Josur’s wound.

The two boys’ mouths fell open, looking from the elf to Dan with question in their wide eyes. Dan shrugged helplessly. They were all very still in the elf’s presence, and Dan smirked a little to see the same dumb-struck awe that he recognised so well in his comrades’ eyes.

“It is not deep,” the elf said.

“Oh no, we know,” Grimme said, fighting for words. “We weren’t going to take him to the healers. Not least till they’ve dealt with all the properly injured people.”

“Hey!” Josur protested. “I’m properly injured. There’s blood!”

The corner of the elf’s mouth twitched. “He need not visit the healers. I can bind this, if we can perhaps borrow some hot water. And, for this ‘proper injury’, maybe some herbs for the pain?”

Josur blushed crimson. “It doesn’t really hurt. I’m alright.”

“Your enemy glanced your rib cage, but he did not break any bones. You may sleep easy, young boy of the Mark. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a small scar.” The elf straightened up and drifted off in search of water, leaving as silently as he had arrived.

Grimme shook himself out of his stupor, blinking a few times and turning to Dan. “Who’s your friend?” He asked, unsettled.

“He saved my life earlier,” Dan shrugged. “I don’t know his name. But I’d have been very dead if it wasn’t for him.”

“We had the same,” Josur said, wincing as he tried to sit up. “We’d have been Orc dinner if the elves hadn’t needed to get past the Orcs that were attacking us to get here. They just cut them all down. It’s cool to watch.”

Grimme nodded, swatting Josur’s hand away to retie the bandage. “Jos nearly was. Shame really.”

Josur smiled fondly up at the blonde boy, picking absentmindedly at the dried crusts of blood on his leather vest. “We made it out alive, though. We’re seasoned warriors now. They’ll write songs about us.”

“We killed one Orc, and it took all three of us. Calm down.” Grimme patted Josur briskly on the shoulder as he finished.

“No, but I mean when they sing of men who fought on the wall and swung their brave swords at the vicious enemy. That’ll apply to us. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling my mum.”

“You do that, sweetie,” Grimme grinned. “And if I die, please tell her that I love her and to name our child after me.”

Josur cursed and aimed a swipe at Grimme, but the stretch shifted the makeshift bandage, dislodging the blood clots that were trying to form and pulling the broken skin painfully over his ribs. Josur gasped, clutching his side. At once, Grimme’s amusement was replaced with worry and he bent forwards, his thick, rough fingers surprisingly gentle as they worked.

“Curse Elendil, Amon Anwar.” Josur’s eyes were screwed shut, and just then their elven friend came running over, his feet light as air.

“Normally it is advisable for the wounded to stay lying down.” The elf murmured. He carried a stone bowl of steaming water and a small leather pouch, together with some clean wadding to replace the dirty scraps of cloth that Grimme had ripped from his shirt to stem the bleeding. Gently, he set to work, and as he did he sang softly.

“What a cry-baby.” Grimme muttered as Josur winced and squirmed, but his hand was on the taller boy’s shoulder and his fingers moved in soothing, circular motions.

The atmosphere in the grey hall was tense and quiet, but overbearingly weary. It had been a long night. There were many wounded, and many more grieving.

Dan got to his feet. He was hungry for one thing, and for another this place full of scattered companies and stragglers had been an abrupt reminder to him. It wasn’t just he, Josur and Grimme that were caught up in the peril. All the boys from their stable had set out together. The men and the horses they had grown up with, too. Dan’s father. He walked cautiously towards the flurry of activity and yells and moans that held host to the wounded. They had been dragged or carried from wherever they had been struck down, and, exhausted, their bearers had set them down here in the entrance hall. Those who were not accompanying the wounded had moved further into the citadel, presumably in search of food and rest.

Dan wasn’t sure he wanted to approach. He was looking out for familiar faces, but hoping with all his might that he wouldn’t see one. Not here where ruined legs were being hewn clean off amidst cries of anguish, nor in the far corner where the dead lay quiet and stiff. He turned right instead, heading through a high stone arch to where the face of a friend would bring only joy and relief (and hopefully some breakfast).

 

 


	3. The Citadel

When Dan returned, the two boys were sat deep in conversation with the elf. They looked up and smiled eagerly at the bread in his arms. The atmosphere inside the citadel was tense, perhaps more so even than it had been upon the wall. Barricades had been flung together hastily and men waiting only for the inevitability of death when the enemy eventually broke down the heavy doors. Word had it that the King was preparing for a final rally, and intended to ride out himself into the fray.

“There are plenty of provisions, both here and in the caves,” Dan said, settling himself down and sharing out the bread. “But the bread won’t last long, so we can have as much as we’d like. I fear our rest break may be short lived, but there aren’t enough doors for every man in here to guard so we might as well enjoy it. Ready yourselves, though. We’ll be needed with the horses soon.”

It was thick, wholesome, farmer’s bread, and it had a slightly salty taste. The boys devoured their portions of the brown loaf, while the elf chewed it thoughtfully.

“Not your cup of tea?” Josur asked.

“Tea?” The elf furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure I understand. It is bread, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. Just an expression.” Josur grinned. “You don’t like it?”

The elf took another nibble. “It is much heavier than the waybread of my people. But is not unpleasant. I feel as if it would fill many hungry men, and it has a warmth to it.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘hearty’,” Grimme smiled, a little chuffed. “It is cheap to make and stores well, compared to lighter bread. It is an everyman’s food. No lord is too noble nor peasant too poor.”

The elf smiled. “Men are strange creatures. They bear great hardships with such grace. The bond of brotherhood is strong in all races, but perhaps most noble in men. It is one thing to die for your people, but quite another to suffer for them. I have spent many years under this sun, but not many walking with men. I feel I still have much to learn.”

A glow of pink tinted the crest of Grimme’s cheeks, and he lowered his gaze, finishing his last mouthful in silence.

A company pulled together from the mismatch of gathered men marched past purposefully. Two boys ran the other way, heaving behind them a set of heavy leather tack as they made for the stables. There was blood on the saddle and the reins had been snapped and now trailed behind the short boy as he stumbled.

“How do they have so much energy?” Grimme sighed.

Dan shrugged. Josur was watching him, and Dan didn’t have to read the concern in the boy’s eyes to know that his clamminess had risen to his face. He tried to slow his breathing and calm the trembling in his left as it fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve. He looked down at the bread crumbs on the floor.

“Something on your mind?” Josur asked.

“Yeah, actually,” Dan said to the floor. There was a sudden rush of silence like blankets settling around his shoulders and muffling the world around him. His tone had not been subtle, and the other boys held their breath as they waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath that caught somewhere in the back of his throat. “Ryce is dead. I found Odel and Ham at the stables. They all got separated, and they haven’t been able to find anyone else. Just Ryce..”

Grimme let out a long, steady breath. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his side. Josur opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, paler now than Dan.

“Oh,” he said softly.

“They think…” Dan hesitated, unsure whether to continue. “Well, the boys from the Eastfold got cut off by a group of wild men while they were fleeing back here. Ham waited, but they never made it through the gates.”

“They might have made it to the caves.” Josur said, his voice high and faint.

“Maybe.” Dan said quietly. He pulled the other boy into a cautious hug, and Grimme joined them.

Beside them, the elf bowed his head. “I am sorry for your loss. They died bravely and in battle.”

Dan straightened up, prodding angrily at the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “We grew up with Ryce. He was always smiling. He was one of those people with great plans for the future, you know? Wild, crazy schemes and dreams. He-” Dan’s voice broke, and he lowered his head. “And the Eastfold boys all moved to together Edoras to train. They’d never been to the capital before, but they’d always dreamed of joining the Kingsguard. Wide eyed, excited. They were really funny.” Abruptly, Dan stopped talking. This was no funeral, and it was no place for a blubbering, ill thought-out eulogy.

For a moment, they sat in silence, but their grieving was cut off by the arrival of a tall, broad shouldered captain bearing a brutal scar proudly across one cheek. He was rallying the stragglers and, less than enthusiastically, the four got to their feet.

Josur was clearly very shaken by Dan’s news, and as they walked Grimme fell behind, gently but urgently consoling him. Dan waked with the elf, accompanying him as he went to relocate his people; but it quickly transpired that the rest of the elves had already regrouped and headed out to wherever they were going, and so, a little abashed, the dark haired elf tagged along with the three boys as they made their way to the stables.

“Many of the men here have seen too many winters,” the elf said under his breath as they passed a group of men with silver beards to match their silver chainmail. “The men on the wall were younger. I’m glad we came. Your peril is grave indeed.”

“I’m glad you came, too,” Dan said, fighting back a smile. “We’d probably all be dead by now if you hadn’t. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How old are you?” Dan had been using the short break as a chance to really look at the elf, and now he braved eye contact once more.

The elf’s eyes were of course his most noticeable feature. A shade of tanzanite blue, too vibrant to belong to any man or dwarf, that pierced through even the greyest of light. They were eyes that could see straight into the soul and drown a man in open air. Then there was his skin, smooth and youthful and very pale as if bathed permanently in shimmering moonlight that fell from hair as black as a clouded night. Flecks of light glimmered like stars in his eyes and his cheekbones were high and proud, yet his lips were soft and his eyes kind. The elf had a long, narrow nose and broad shoulders, and he was unquestionably beautiful. Now, he turned to Dan with amusement in the eyes that had captivated the boy so much.

“Quite a question from someone who has not yet asked my name.”

Josur had been watching Dan, and now he whispered something to Grimme that made him snort.

Dan’s cheeks burned and he stammered an apology. “You didn’t ask ours, either.” He said, a little petulantly. They had reached the stables now and they stopped, surveying the work to be done.

The elf laughed and the sound was like bells ringing through an open valley. “I did not need to. Your conversations told me. You are Daniel of Rohan, and he is Grimme – which means fierce. And Josur is our friend with the grievous injury, who is named after the hare.”

“Okay,” Dan said, defeated. “What’s your name then?”

“I fear you would not be able to pronounce it, or at least butcher it beyond all recognition with the harsh timbre of your tongue,” the elf’s expression was sincere, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “And I’m afraid it does not translate well into the common tongue.” He paused, considering for a moment, and then he cast his eyes around the hall. “Excuse me, sir. Yes you.” He called out.

A very old, very dirty man propped up against the wall set down his bread in surprise and looked up uncertainly. “Aye?”

“What is your name?”

“Eh?”

“What did your parents name you?”

“He might not speak the common tongue,” Dan interrupted, translating quickly to the Rohirric language of the Riddermark.

The elderly man prodded his chest with a gnarled finger. “Philip.”

“Thank you, good sir.” The elf said, grinning widely now. “There we go. My man-name shall be Philip.”

Dan winced. “It doesn’t really suit you.”

“Nonsense,” the elf said, clearly enjoying himself. “If it’s good enough for that noble warrior, then it’s good enough for me.”

“At least shorten it to Phil.” Dan said despairingly.

“Well, if it would please my new man-friends then so be it.” The elf, now Phil, teased.

“Sweet Anwar,” muttered Grimme. “We’re friends with an elf named Phil.”

“And may the name bear me well.” Phil clapped Grimme on the shoulder, his smile contagious.

 

 


	4. Of Elves and Men

The tack room smelled like clean leather and metal and straw. Outside, they could hear the horses whinnying with frustration, desperate to finally taste open air again and see for themselves the source of all the noise and clamour.

“You didn’t answer my first question,” Dan said with a grunt, hoisting a heavy saddle down from a peg and into his arms. “How old are you?”

“To me, you boys are babes born only at the fall of the summer.” Phil smiled kindly at them as he picked up another saddle as easily as if it were made of feathers.

“Older than a hundred?” Josur queried. They walked out to the stalls where fifty proud war horses pawed the hay with their hoofs, restless for open air.  

Phil laughed. “Yes. Three times that count is a little closer.”

Grimme let out a low whistle. “Maybe we should have called you Grandpa instead of Phil.” He cursed as the lithe black horse he was tending to pulled away for a second time as he tried to slip the bit between its teeth. The beast’s eyes were wide and darting and it’s ears thrust forward, flickering at every noise. They would run fast and hard when the time came. Grimme just hoped that they would ride home again.

“I certainly don’t have any children.” Phil said, a little alarmed.

“Do you have a wife?” Dan asked, immediately embarrassed by the question.

“No,” Phil said. “There is too much of the world left to walk.”

Dan nodded. He could understand that. He ran his hand down the soft flanks of the dappled grey he and Phil had been tacking up. Horses always seemed so warm when they were dry. Dan had to resist the urge to press his face against the mare’s back. She smelled like horse and hay and home.

“Your people breed beautiful horses. They love you as you love them.”

Dan jumped. He hadn’t heard Phil come up behind him and he blushed, snatching his hand away from the mare’s side. He turned to face the elf but, as usual, looked away again almost immediately.

“Without them we wouldn’t have a lot,” Dan shrugged. “We grow up with them. It’s hard not to love them. You can fear them, of course. If you have a bad fall you might never get back on again. And accidents happen. There are wild horses with bitter tempers, and if you meet one of them when you’re young it will probably stay with you. But even so, our horses are in our blood and we’re in theirs.”

“To clarify,” Grimme said, poking his head around the stall. “We don’t breed with our horses. That’s just Dan.”

Dan winced, pulling down the stirrups and slipping two fingers into the headcollar so as to lead the mare out of the stables. He ignored Grimme as they passed, the sound of hooves clattering on the flagstones blocking out his jibes. By Dan’s side, Phil sniggered.

“Don’t you start,” Dan muttered. “That’s the oldest insult we have. People can’t seem to visit Rohan without making a few bestiality jokes. I guess we do bring it on ourselves.”

“It’s not a crime to love.” Phil said, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, a touchy subject?”

“I don’t fuck horses.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Josur called out from somewhere underneath a pile of hay. “But what about tall, dashing elves with stupid names?”

Outside, things were more hectic. A company was assembling, and Dan could tell by their helms that some of these were high lords indeed. He kept his head down and quickened his pace guiltily. Phil bid a fond farewell to their grey before they headed back into the stables. On their way they encountered Grimme trying to shift a terrified stallion out into the clamour and Josur leaping like a dancer to avoid the flying limbs.

“I don’t envy the poor sod trying to sit on this one for more than a few seconds.” Grimme grunted.

“We need to go faster,” Josur panted. “No time for horse loving or elf petting today.”

Dan rolled his eyes and joined Phil breaking into a jog. There were more people at work now. The long room bustled with activity and clanking metal and shouting. The horses were becoming steadily more agitated, and Dan whispered soothing words in the ears of the tall palomino who was straining at her restraints. In the next stall Phil, now familiar with the process, was preparing another war horse for battle. He seemed very comfortable around the animals, but the elves had arrived on foot. Surely if they kept horses they would have ridden? It was a long way from Lorien. It was fascinating how much the arrival of something new could cause Dan’s mind to wander.

There was no time to ponder. Already men were rushing into the stables to help with their own horses. Dan provided a leg-up for a tall man with blindingly shiny armour. He jumped out of the way as a dark coloured gelding span in tight circles around a tiny boy trying to console the huge beast. There wasn’t much he could do, so Dan sped on.

“Ride out!” A man’s voice rang out over the clamour. “For death and glory! For Rohan!”

It was too small a space for so many large horses and so many panicking men.

“They’re breaking in at the East gate! We go now!”

Josur was tightening straps and girths, fingers flying, while Phil was at the very back of the stables trying to calm a still riderless piebald.

The Rohirrim were ready. The collapsing barricades were now manned by the full force of those seeking shelter in the citadel. The last of the riders made their way out into the open. Dan was joined by Josur, red-faced and sweating.

“The king is there!” He whispered. “Look. At the front!”

“For Theoden!” The tall man called, and it was clear that this was the voice they had heard calling his men to arms.

A young boy joined Dan and Josur in the doorway, watching King Theoden ride up and down the ranks. “They’re going to rebuild the barricade once the charge has swept the Orcs away from the gates,” the boy said, clutching his sides. “Everything near the front has already been used. Look for big, heavy objects. The captain said there were back rooms here. Benches. Things like that. I have to go. Move quickly. Good luck. For Rohan!”

Reluctantly, Dan pulled his gaze away from the King. “You any good at heavy lifting?” He asked Phil. “Because I’m not.”

“I will help.” Phil nodded.

The back rooms did not yield much. A small mess room and storage for the horses’ fodder. Hay bales would not do much against the forces of Isengard.

“I wish there had been enough horses for everyone to join the charge,” Grimme muttered, picking disdainfully through a box of metal tools as Dan and Phil joined him and Josur on the floor. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to do. Locking myself in some godforsaken hole and waiting to die.”

They were preparing, with much reluctance, to take down the walls of the stalls and use the timber for the barricade. They moved as slowly as they dared. To take apart the stables would be to condemn the riders; to admit that they did not expect those beautiful horses to return, and it was a cruel task.

Josur turned a stone handle over in his palm and rested his other hand on Grimme’s knee. “It won’t be like that,” he said quietly. “We have lines of defence. We will charge and retreat and fight as brave a battle as any man outside. The barricade is holding. Who knows, maybe our enemy will be defeated and the horns will be sounding before we’ve loosened the first plank.”

Grimme turned to his friend, his grey eyes wide with a gaze that was both beseeching and steely, as if daring himself to believe Josur’s words. “I’m glad that we are here together,” he said, his tone sincere. “Not that I’m glad you’re here, I would wish you all far away from this Hell. But, as fate brought us here, I’m glad it kept us close. I feel almost brave with my brothers at my side. And an elf called Phil.” A small smile tugged at the corner of Grimme’s mouth. “It warms my terrified heart.”

A red flush rose in Josur’s cheeks and all at once he pulled the shorter boy into a rough embrace, turning to include Dan and Phil.

“We may yet make it through the night,” he said in a fierce whisper. “We may not die here. And if we are to die, then we shall do so fighting. I won’t mind it so much, dying. Not if I can do it properly, with honour and good company.”

They broke apart abruptly, dropping their gazes and setting immediately back to work. Dan sneaked a glance at Phil as he got to his feet. He expected the elf to look awkward or uncomfortable, but to his surprise Phil’s eyes were creased with woe and they stared blue and agonised at some unfocused point in the stone wall. Dan offered a hand and Phil blinked before taking it and unfolding gracefully to stand up.

“You ok?” Dan muttered under his breath as they headed back out towards the largest storage room.

Phil bowed his head slowly. “Mortality is cruel.” He said, his voice barely a whisper, and Dan didn’t have to probe further to know what he was thinking.

Two boys, perhaps as young as fifteen, raced past supporting a third between them and leaving a trail of blood on the flagstones. A black arrow protruded from his midriff.

Phil had walked the forests of Middle Earth three-hundred years or more. He faced down death with cold acceptance. The lives of men were but a fleeting memory to an elf.

Coarse yells reached their ears, echoing off the high stone walls. The clash of steel upon iron. Thuds and grunts and cries of pain. The barricade was failing. The riders had not returned.

“There you are,” Josur poked his head around the door, out of breath. “Come on. Grimme thinks he’s found a door.” They headed out at a jog, a new sense of urgency brought about by the commotion at the gates. Soon, they would be too busy fighting to add much to the barricade.

“Another room, probably where the benches are. Except it hasn’t been used in years. The door’s so coated in dirt you can’t see it. We need help shifting it.” Grimme explained with a grunt as he heaved on a plank.

They set about with what little tools they had and soon had unstuck the swollen timber with a satisfying squelch. The air inside was musty and thick with dust. Dan coughed, squinting cautiously into the gloom. Behind him, Grimme lit a torch and held it aloft.

“Grimme, you angel.” Josur let out a low whistle.

It was a long, low-ceilinged room lined with long benches and sturdy tables. The shelves were stacked with shapes obscured by cobwebs and fine, grey dust that looked like they could be stores or kitchen utensils.

They hurried in, Grimme setting a fire in the wall brackets, and heaved the first bench onto its side. Dan and Phil set about dismantling the tables so that they could be carried through the doors while Grimme and Josur shifted the benches out into the stables for the rest of the gathered Rohirrim to transport them to the gates. The pair ran back through the door a third time, their faces pale.

“What is it?” Dan said between breaths as he hauled around the heavy oak plank to face the door.

“You remember Eádric?” Grimme said quietly.

“The little one? He’s not here is he?” Dan’s eyes were wide. “He’s too young! He should be in the caves with the other children. Fool. There’s not a sword here that’s lighter than he is.”

“He’s dead.”

Silence smothered them in a moment that should have been still, but for the press of need that kept them working and grunting and shifting wood across stone with a harsh, grating sneer.

Josur took the end of a bench from Dan.”He was too young.” He said simply. They worked without speaking, each in their own daze. Josur’s mind seemed to be working, and as he returned a fourth time he spoke softly to the other three.“I don’t want to do this any more.” He said, lifting in time with Grimme without needing any countdown. “If by some miracle we make it out alive, I think I’m going to quit. I don’t want to fight. I’m not a killer. I don’t feel brave or honourable or noble. I feel scared and useless. And sad.” The four of them heaved two planks of wood apart, the bolts too stuck to undo all the way, and set the wood down to catch their breath.

“I don’t love fighting or blood or the rush of battle,” Josur continued. “I love horses and the smell of fresh hay and the bright sky just after dawn. I love being up early enough to catch some of the animals still asleep. I don’t want to kill. I don’t want to spend my life around so much death.”

They carried the two pieces outside and turned back to the hidden room. There were only three benches left inside. Grimme moved to stand beside Josur.

“After this is over,” he said in an undertone that the shouting soldiers could not hear. “We’ll leave the barracks. We’ll go to work in a stable, or maybe start our own. We’ll send no boy nor horse to war. I swear it.”

Josur turned to face him, his sad eyes glimmering. “We could move down to the Westfold. There’s good land for farming. I don’t think my Ma would mind, me quitting the army to become a farmer. She cries when she thinks of me going to war. Even now, so long after father died.”

“We could start a stud,” Grimme agreed, the vision forming behind his eyes. “Or breed at the farm. I’ve always loved foaling.”

Phil had not spoken in a long time, but now he approached swiftly and placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “Hold your dreams bright and clear in your mind.” He said. “They will help you through the darkness.” He turned back to Dan with a sad smile. “I feel I have learned more of the race of men in these few hours than i have in many years of study and travel. I would like very much to visit your horse farm. I hope that we may remain friends. But now we must move. Hark! Do you hear?”

Perhaps it was Dan’s imagination, but it seemed there was a glint of something shiny in the corner of the tall elf’s eye.

“No? What is it?” Josur asked, glancing warily at the pile of armour and weaponry they’d cast aside in order to work faster.

“I’m not sure,” Phil admitted. “Something new that seems to echo. I fear that it will not bode well.”

“Have they brought something new to break down the gates?”

“That was my worry, but the more I listen the more I fear that it might not be coming from that direction. Come, let us take these last two. Then we may take up our helms again and feel a little less bare.”

Phil led the four back into the room, blowing life back into a flickering torch as he passed. Much of the oil in the burners had evaporated over the years of negligence, and two more at the back were beginning to dim. Grimme lit the torches in the back wall that they had not needed earlier, in case there was need of this room later in the night. The new light illuminated the stone wall and Dan stopped dead.

“Can you still hear the noise?” He asked Phil, his voice hushed. “I think I might be able to hear it now, too.”

The boys stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the back wall on what was, unmistakably, another door in the stone. From behind it came the clattering echo of crawling feet and clinking armour.

 

 


	5. Of Cold Steel and Hard Stone

"Call for aid!" cried Phil, charging forwards and seizing the end of a remaining bench. “Barricade it before the door is opened!”

But they were too slow, for already there came a crash at the closed door, and another.

"Help!" Dan screamed into an empty corridor.

"Dan!" Phil yelled, as the first huge orc came smashing through the timber door.

Grimme lifted the other end of the bench just in time to catch the beast in the midriff before it could get through the frame. Together with Phil, he heaved.

"The tunnel is small, they can only come through one at a time. We have to keep them inside!" Grimme called. “If they break through everyone in the citadel will die.”

The Orc was winded. It stumbled backwards into the passageway, pushing the line of waiting Orcs back. They stumbled, then caught themselves. All that could be seen from the room was a dark chasm.

Josur's face was ashen. "We have no weapons."

Feet on flagstones moving forwards once more.

"We can't leave to retrieve them," Phil cast his eyes around the room.

Dan wrenched an iron bracket off the wall and tossed it to Josur.

"Archer!" Grimme cried.

They ducked as a storm of arrows pelted the room, bouncing off the stone floor. Another push and the bench was ripped from Phil's arms. The first Orc rushed through. Dan stepped forward with a scream and parried the Orc’s heavy sword with a wooden tray. His arms buckled under the blow and he fell back, crying out in pain.

Phil sprung up, pulling a short dagger from his waist and plunging it into the neck of the Orc. It fell; another took its place.

"Help!" Dan screamed again, scrambling back to his feet.

Josur beat helplessly at the wide shoulders of the second Orc. Phil was fighting broadsword with dagger, his arms flashing impossibly fast.

Grimme ripped a lit brazier from the back wall and thrust the burning oil into the Orc’s face. It wailed and cursed in the black speech, letting drop its sword, then it too was dead with an elvish dagger slicing through its jugular.

Grimme reached for the fallen sword. He brought it up to meet the attack of another Orc bursting through from the passageway.

“Gurth gothrimlye,” Phil whispered as he prised the scimitar from the death grip of the first Orc and flung it to Dan. "I smell troll."

An archer was covering the foot soldiers now, firing near blindly through the small gap but proving effective. An arrow glanced off the wall inches from Dan's face. He blanched.

"Help!" he yelled a third time, desperately and with an audible tremble. The line of waiting orcs stretched as far as the dim light would show. Already there were two fighting through the doorway, facing off Grimme and Phil.

Dan caught a kneecap clumsily with his new blade. The Orc fell over the abandoned bench and Dan gladly claimed a long dagger while Josur plunged another orc blade into the black throat. He drew back the sword, staring in horror at the wet blood. It glistened in the half light. Josur looked like he was going to be sick. For a brief moment, his eyes met Dan's and they shared a look of anguish before turning terrified back to the fight.

"There are people coming," Phil hissed between breaths. "But the orcs come faster."

It was true. A few more steps and the front two would be far enough through to let two more come behind. If that should happen, the four fighters would be doomed.

Dan jabbed his blade again and again. He did not know how to hold or point the weapon, only blind panic and the voice screaming in the front of his mind to swing and keep swinging.

He swung. The blade hit metal. He swung again. The blade hit a helmet and the orc swayed. It was but a moment of disorientation, but it cost the fell beast its life. Phil withdrew his sword, turning at once to the next Orc with smooth, calculated grace.

Dan stumbled over the bench and fell forwards, only just catching himself in time. An Orc fell by his face. The foul stench made him gag.

Above him Josur and Grimme fought together. Grimme’s face was set like grey stone. His eyes burned and his short arms swung hard. Terror was plain in the pallid sheen of his skin and the hitch in his breath, but not in the set if his jaw. By his shoulder, Josur’s face was contorted, his eyes wide and bulging and his whole body trembling. He swung fast but inaccurately. So wild were his attacks that Dan was forced to duck, lest his head join the one by his feet.

Finally, clattering feet could be heard on the flagstones outside. Shouting and calling as men took up arms.

"Barricade the outer door!" Phil called, his voice suddenly booming and authoritative.

Dan turned to him, eyes wide.

"The second we abandon this entrance they will be after us." Phil said quietly. "Their pursuit would be too swift. They have archers. We would not make it to the second door. If we did, we would have this situation further into the citadel. That is no good."

"He's right," Grimme grunted, freeing an ugly head from its shoulders. "With us holding them back the others will have time to make a proper barricade. These orcs travel light. They have but their shoulders to break through. It is our best chance."

"But we will surely die." said Dan hopelessly.

"If the Orcs get through, everyone out there will die." Grimme said bluntly.

"At least while we fight there is hope," Phil twirled with a guttural cry to meet an Orc head on. Sparks seemed to fly where their blades clashed. "If we are fighting there is always hope. We will not be afraid." Phil panted between swings. "We will not know death until it is upon us, and we will die with valour."

Dan's eyes found Josur’s again and he knew their thoughts were shared. He was fighting, and yet he felt hopeless. He was fighting and he was afraid. Behind them, the oak door swung shut and something heavy thudded against it.

*

"We're going to get you out!"

The men behind the outer door had constructed their barricade. Inside the little room, sweat poured down Dan's face.

"We have fire," the voice continued. "We’re preparing for a charge!"

Even Phil was beginning to tire. "What do you need us to do?" he called back. There was a troll somewhere in the tiny passageway. They could all hear it grunt and snuffle.

"Keep fighting!" came the reply. "Is there an archer amongst you? We are no warriors, and we are few."

"An elf, from the company of Haldir," Phil called back as he tussled furiously with a squat Orc. "But my bow is outside."

"We have it, we hoped the owner was near. How many are you?"

"Four."

"Could the elf fall behind? We need your skills for this to succeed. You must be able to stop and receive us without peril."

"Josur, take my place," Phil said through gritted teeth as the beast finally fell in front of him.

They maneuvered awkwardly. There were now a pile of corpses in the doorway causing difficulties for both sides. To get through the stone arch, the Orcs had to leap and scramble over the mound, which made them vulnerable. However if just one were to mount the carcasses it would push the Rohan boys so far back that the rest could follow with ease.

"The troll! It is the size of a horse!" Josur wailed suddenly, his high voice piteous and agonised and full of shame at the fear so apparent in his cry. "They are widening the tunnel to get it through, and a whole host follows. Grimme! We shall be slaughtered!"

"Can you boys hurry up back there?" Grimme's voice was strained, for he too had seen the oncoming storm.

"The troll will fill the doorframe?" Phil asked suddenly.

"He will smash through." Josur said, his eyes wide with realisation.

There was a murmur of consultation outside the room. The waiting men had heard their exchange. "It's the perfect time to strike," a voice decided. "The troll smashes through and the orcs will be forced to stay back. Trolls are slow. We run behind it and block the passage."

"So we're stuck with a troll?" Dan asked faintly.

"Rather that than a host of Uruk-Hai." Phil muttered.

The two orcs they were fighting suddenly fled backwards, and there was the troll, monstrous and swollen, its thick hide white and ridged and glistening with a sheen of moisture.

"Move back," Phil ordered. "We need to let it through."

Their weapons seemed very small as they faced down the huge creature. It roared, smashing angrily at the wooden frame with a black iron mace.  Dan, Josur and Grimme were at the front, Phil a little behind waiting to receive his bow and arrows and begin the charge.

The beast was so cumbersome it seemed to be moving in slow motion. Dan could feel his heart pounding in his neck and his legs quivering.

All at once, the two orcs that had retreated back into the tunnel sprung forth again through the tiny gap. They came fast and ferocious. Dan and Josur flinched backwards in terror, bringing their swords up in front of their faces. Grimme charged forwards to meet them. In two short blows he was cut down and lay dead on the floor.

"Now! Come now! They break through!" Phil cried to the men outside as he leapt forwards, catching the first Orc’s blade with a ringing clash that echoed off the low ceiling.

Dan and Josur stood motionless, staring at Grimme's body on the stone. Around them, men of Rohan poured through the door with cries of war. They carried the remains of the first barricade and kindling and torches ablaze. It was clear they meant to set a fire in the tunnel and smoke the Orcs out the other end.

Still, the troll bore down on them. How cruel that it could keep on moving when the world had stopped. Dan blinked slowly. He knew he had legs, but knew not how to move them. He stared around for a second that seemed an hour.

Phil stood beside him, rapidly loosing every arrow in his quiver to keep the Orcs at bay while the men worked. It was only now that Dan registered the noise. Everyone was shouting. Blades were clashing and fire was crackling. The troll was snarling as it lifted its mace to aim a swing at Phil.

Everything sped up. Dan dragged himself up from the floor where he had fallen and back into his empty body standing stationary in the centre of the room. Finally, he let out a primal scream that filled the room.

"Grimme!" He plunged forwards.

"For Grimme!" Josur yelled, running forwards at his side.

The ferocity of their attack surprised the troll and it rolled back on its heels with a roar. Phil's trance of concentration broken, he shot an arrow deep into the beast's wide eye and turned back to the passageway.

The troll was backing up fast, but Dan and Josur were merciless. Their eyes blazed. Their swords flashed. What they lacked in skill they made up for in rage. Tears pricked the corners of Dan's eyes as he drove his blade again and again into the trolls thick hide. A torrent of curses poured from Josur’s trembling lips as he wrestled the beast's weapon out if its bleeding hand, a thick finger falling to the floor at his feet.

Dan did not know which one of them had cast the fatal blow. The troll lay dead and mutilated, and it was over.

The Rohirrim had blocked up the passage so that the smoke would go but one way. Now, they secured the entrance. The fire had been lit on the pile of carcasses. Only two bodies remained on this side of the wall. The troll, heaped against a wall and bleeding thick, viscous blood, and grimme, trampled and kicked to one side in the battle.

Dan fell down by the boy's side. He seemed smaller than ever in death. Josur remained where he stood, unable to approach.

Grimme's eyes were open. His face was bloodied and broken where a heavy boot had trodden. The wounds that had killed him were somewhere in his midriff, and the blood on his vest was already starting to dry.

Dan fumbled pathetically for Grimme's hand. It did not feel cold, but perhaps that was because Dan’s own skin was so clammy and shivering.

"I'm sorry for your loss. He died in battle and with great honour. He will be remembered." The gruff voice of a soldier registered vaguely in Dan's mind. He did not look up.

The men mumbled their condolences as they filed out, and finally Josur fell on the stone beside Dan, Phil's hand on his shoulder. They started in silence. Quietly, Phil reached forwards to close the lids over Grimme's fierce grey eyes. He did not look at peace. He looked as if he had been tossed like a sack into a corner, his arms contorted cruelly behind his limp head.

Angrily, Dan tugged at his limbs and his clothes, dragging him into a lying position and resting his stout arms by his side. He would never look as if he was sleeping. He was too broken, his skin too pale.

A hot tear splashed onto the stone. Dan pulled Josur into his chest and they stayed like that for a while, even as the shouts from outside reached their ears. The battle raged on. They did not have time to mourn. If they stopped for the death of each man on this terrible night, they would remain stopped until they were grey and wrinkled with age.

"The men rejoice by the gate," Phil said softly. "They say the white wizard has returned. I do not know what this means, except that we perhaps have time to move his body, lest the fires die back and this place become a battleground once more."

Together, they raised Grimme's body from the flagstones and carried him out into the stables. They laid him on a pile of soft hay. The warm, familiar smell broke through all layers of shock, and finally the two boys of Rohan wept openly onto the straw.

"The sky has gained a bright star tonight, but one that we are loathe to give." Phil said bitterly. "I have no words that will ease your pain. We will fight tonight so that we may live to return here and bury his body in a beautiful land void of darkness."

Dan knew what Phil was saying. They could not lose themselves now while there were still Orcs pressing onwards. Troops were rallying somewhere to their left. It seemed that they might venture out onto the battlefield. Dan climbed unsteadily to his feet, his face set in grim resolve. He had fight in him now to face down the entire might of Isengard alone. He would spill the blood of every orc in his path and still not have avenged his brother.

Josur remained on the floor. He was shuddering; great, heaving sobs were ripping through his body as if they might tear his ribs apart.

"It's my fault," he whispered. "I was scared. I was filled with cowardice, and I jumped backwards when I should have jumped forwards with Grimme."

"We both did," Dan said, his voice hoarse. It was a thought that had not escaped his notice.

"There were only two orcs," Josur continued faintly. "We should have taken them easily. Grimme should not have died. Had any other soldiers been by his side he would have lived. I am no soldier. I am no man. I am a coward. I was not fit to call him brother." Josur leaned forward, his face wet with tears, to press his lips against Grimme's bloody forehead.

"I feel your guilt," Dan said, placing a hand on Josur’s shoulder. "And I share it. He was bold where we were timid, and it cost his life. But never think for a moment that he was not proud to call you brother. He loved you and he deserved to live, but he did not die alone and he did not die afraid. We may yet find our courage. We may yet avenge him. Will you draw sword with me, Josur of Rohan?"

And Josur stood, and he was afraid, but fear is weak and there are many emotions stronger and so, two boys and an elf crippled with grief found their feet once more and broke into a run.


	6. Flight

The battle was all but spent, and the three walked slowly and laboriously, exhausted and leaning in their swords. They had not left each other’s side for one minute of the last assault. This they were fearsome about.

Phil knelt beside a fallen elf; blonde-haired and pale-skinned but disfigured and maimed and choking on blood. His breath came out in death rattles and gurgles. His eyes looked up at the dawn, but saw little. Phil whispered some soft words in elvish, prayers, perhaps, and drew his dagger across the elf's throat. His eyes slipped shut with a final sigh. Phil bowed his head. He paused, then stood. They moved on.

"Do you see?" Josur broke the sombre silence. "Beside, or perhaps beneath those carcasses. Someone lives."

They ran over, pulling the black orcs aside and finally heaving out a man, tall and broad with the white horse of the Riddermark across his helm.

They laid him on the ground and his eyes found focus.

"Daniel?" The man croaked.

"Father." Dan said, and his voice was hollow. There was none of the anguish of his cry for Grimme. He had recognised too many faces in the piles of dead. He had cried all the tears his eyes could produce.

"You are alive. I am glad. Your mother would never have forgiven me." Dan's father grimaced.

"And you have lost your leg." Dan crouched beside his father, taking his hands between his own. "Lie still now. We are three, and we can carry you."

"I'm afraid I have lost more than that," the dark haired man sighed. "Some blood. Perhaps my left lung."

Dan smoothed back the hair plastered damp with sweat to his father's face.

"My friend is an elf. He will heal you." Dan said, as much to convince himself as his father.

"You will look after your mother." Dan's father continued, ignoring him. "I loved her always. She knows that, but it was not enough. I did not love her enough to do what I should have done, though I thought I loved her with my all. I should have stayed for you. My boy. My soldier. I see that now, and every day since she shut me out. You will tell her? A dying man's last wish."

"You're not dying." Dan said, his tone stubborn but his eyes wide.

"I'm afraid I am," his father said sadly. "And where I had accepted that fate while I lay bleeding and quite alone, now I am grievanced by it. My only son stands before me, with blood on his armour and a notched sword by his side." The old man (for he seemed very old now, gasping for breath and pausing occasionally to cough) pulled himself on to his side to look Dan up and down. "My boy is weary with war, and his eyes have seen death. This is not the boy I clothed in my old armour and sent out to war with worry thick in my heart. This is a man. This is a soldier. This is my son. And I will not live long enough to hear the tales of your battle and the victories hard won."

"I killed a troll," Dan said helplessly, his eyes burning but woefully dry. "Jos and me. It was as big as a draught horse." Dan had seen Phil, who had been working quietly away at the tall man's leg, sigh, sit back, and shake his head at Dan. His father had lost too much blood. He was deathly pale, and his words were hard to make out.

"There were no trolls here," his face stretched into a smile. "My brave boy. My son. My soldier. May you slay many more. May they write songs about your feats of war. May you ride beside King Theoden and decorate our halls with splendour."

“I will. I promise.” Dan lied.

“You know, for the first time ever I saw truly a reflection of myself in you when you came to me and told me that you were going to fight. That you had practiced with the other stable boys, even though you were not in training. You were afraid, but resolute and burning with the passion of your country. That is how I too felt that day.” Dan’s father sighed heavily, his hand suddenly limp in Dan’s grasp. “Would though I could see you ride off to war in your own armour with your own sword and horse. That day will come, though I will not ride beside you. I am glad that you chose this path. I was glad when I saw you off into the caves with your mother, for I knew there you would be safest, but in my heart I was sad because I knew that you would boil and burn down there with the noise of the battle above you and you unable to help.”

It took the dark haired man a long time to speak each word and much was lost, but Dan made out enough. His gut was twisted and his cheeks flushed.

“The captain has offered me a place, Pa,” he said quietly, not looking up to meet the eyes of his friends. “There is much work to do here, but when we are finished I will join Josur. It will not be long before we ride out together. A battle teaches you much.”

His father’s ruined face stretched into a blissful grin. “You will be better even than I. You will make your mother proud and fill her mantel with medals. My boy. My soldier. My son.”

Dan's father slipped out of consciousness mumbling into the ground. A few moments later, he was dead.

Phil and Josur bowed their heads at either side of Dan.

"We can carry him back." Josur said quietly, but Dan shook his head.

"Many of my father's company live on. We passed them earlier, doing as we do. When the time comes to collect the bodies they will ensure it is done properly and that my mother is found. There are many injured out here. Our duty is with the living. Those we can still help."

Phil's brow furrowed, but he made no comment. They rose and once more headed out, and even the dawn chorus was subdued and the trees dark with death.

*

"I'm moving to the Westfold." Josur said decidedly. They were sat on the slope of the dike, looking out at the forest. The grief within the walls had been too much to bear. The air was stifling and the sound of weeping penetrated every corner. The morning was bright and new and, weary and  hungry, the three companions had settled down to a poor picnic of stale bread.

"I'll see my mother and sister.” Josur continued. “Make sure that they are well. And I'll pay my respects to our friends. But I can't  bear to stay for the burials. There are too many dead. I could not bear to see him thrown into a pit or burnt on a mound. I will go, like we promised each other. I'll never touch a sword again. I vow it. I would only cause more death than I prevent." Josur lay back, looking up at the clouds scurrying across the sky. "What of you, Dan?" He asked. "Will you come with me? We will breed the finest and gentlest horses rohan has ever seen."

Dan was silent, staring out but seeing little. He had said but a few words all morning.

Phil watched him, his brow still creased. "You should find your mother," his voice was as soft as the breeze that ruffled the tops of the trees. It seemed to cut through to Dan's ears better than the wails that had so perturbed josur. "Give her your father's message. Let her know you're okay."

Dan nodded. This he surely would do. But what then?

People deal with grief differently. Josur wanted to honour Grimme and build his life around him and focus on him and remember. Dan wanted only to forget. He wanted to take off down the dike and run to the trees and keep running. He wanted to forget the horrors he had seen. He wanted to lose the part of him that had fought in this battle forever. But where could he possibly go? He was a boy who had not even ventured out of Edoras. He knew nothing of the world, save the canvas map in his father's bedroom that he had long poured bright eyed over, pointing out the inked names and asking his father endless questions.

Phil sensed his discomfort. "We each have family to attend to and duty to fulfil. We start there, and we take the next step only then. We have fought for the present and now we must seize it. A war only reminds you how little time you may have left."

A flock of birds rose suddenly, startled by some noise in the woods. They flew two circles then settled down again amongst the canopy, bar two. The lone companions broke away from the flock on the second  circuit and flew straight and fast until they disappeared into the  sun.

 

 


	7. Stars' Day

Dan's mother did not take long to find. She wept, but Dan could not find the tears. He told her of Josur’s plan and pledged that he would go with him, but he knew in his heart that he would not. The was a burning, smouldering feeling inside of him; like a fire just kindled and being coaxed gently into life, taking hold of each vein and artery and winding it's tendrils flickering and burning into his flesh. It was a passion and a yearning, and something he couldn’t quite tie down. The answer did not lie heer in Helm’s Deep, nor in Edoras and perhaps not even in Rohan.

Phil was waiting for him, his face washed and glowing again. His hair was pulled back into neat braids and his armour had been traded for light cotton.

“My company moves out in three days,” he said as Dan approached. “Many of our people are dead. We cannot stay here.”

“I wish I could do that,” Dan said bitterly, slumping down on the stone steps. “This place is horrible. Do you think it is heartless, to wish never to say my farewells?”

Phil shook his head, sitting down beside Dan, his long limbs suddenly awkward out of the practiced grace of battle. His hand hovered for a moment by Dan’s shoulder, before settling in his lap. “We will hold a ceremony for our dead, but they will be laid to rest in their own lands with their own customs. I’m not escaping, either. I don’t think you are heartless. Everyone grieves in different ways. I feel what you feel. I have been to many of these ceremonies, and they do not provide closure but reopen the wound.”

“Exactly!” Dan exclaimed. “I don’t suppose I could go with you anyway? Sneak in a wagon or something. Tell my mum I fell asleep by accident, and woke up miles from home unfortunately missing all the mourning stuff.”

Phil flashed him a grin. “In your people’s terms at least, you are an adult. I can’t stop you. But why must you sneak away, when you could run?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your plan seems fairly bleak. You get discovered and cast out somewhere on the road. Then what? You walk back on your own? These are perilous times. It is not safe to wander alone.”

“Come with me, then.” Dan said suddenly, a flush rising in his cheeks. “You don’t want to go back either. Let’s run away.”

An amused smile danced across Phil’s lips. “That was what I was going to suggest.”

“Really?” Dan blinked.

Phil nodded. “I will tell my people that my new friend has an urgent quest and we must attend to it immediately. You were struck by some poison, perhaps, and three days is too long to tarry - we must leave immediately to seek elven healing power. You can tell your mother and your friends that I am the one with the hurt.”

“That deception came way too quickly. Is this something you do a lot?” Dan said slowly, the cogs turning in his mind.

“I’ve had some time to consider.” Phil confessed.

Dan sat in silence a few more seconds, following the grain in the stone with his eyes. “What, running away with a stable boy?” He couldn’t bring himself to look up, and it was hard to read sincerity or another grin in the elf’s tone.

“I am but a boy myself, to the elves,” Phil said. “I have wondered for some time if war was really my calling. Tonight tripled that doubt. We seem to be likeminded on that one. I would like to travel Middle Earth without death and horror at the end of each long march. I don’t know if our news is of concern to you, but my people are leaving these lands and returning across the sea. I would like to feel as if I truly knew them before I go.”

Now Dan raised his face. He felt guilty for the glow in his heart. He was supposed to be mourning, not picturing a bright future. But what was war if not a fight for the future? “Travelling? Where?” He asked.

“Wherever,” Phil shrugged. When elves were motionless it was with a stillness that no other man nor beast could emanate. Perhaps it was this that others found so intimidating. Phil’s gaze was very steady. The only movement came from a stray tendril of dark hair loose from the braid above his ear and floating in the breeze. “Away from war.”

“Why me?” The question felt stupid on Dan’s lips, but Phil’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m not sure,” he seemed to consider for a moment. “Partly because of timing. I believe that there is some truth in fate. We are both here thinking and feeling the same thing at the same time, and the opportunity to act just happens to be right now, too. I’ve never had escape so within my grasp before. It feels like the right time.

“We were thrown together somewhat, don’t you think? I barely left your side all night. At first I felt the need to care for you. You were not built for war, nor were you prepared. Your purpose lies somewhere else. I saw myself reflected in that. I confess, the elves are prone to considering the fleeting lives of men a little below them. How could men possibly become as wise and learned and great as us in so short a time? But I think perhaps, last night, I started to learn.” He smiled, his eyes warm.

A shiver ran down Dan’s spine. He brought his knee up awkwardly and hugged it to his chest, trying not to blink too much and keep the muscles in his face from moving.

“You fascinated me,” Phil carried on. “And you continue to. I want to learn. The emotions, the heartbreak, the speed of everything. Time is so absolute to you. You count every second. There were men on that wall with death stalking their footsteps and yet they had never left their home city. They had never seen an elven kingdom or a dwarvish stronghold. Never passed through the Argonath or walked the halls of Erebor, never seen a firemoon nor even the great expanse of the sea. Human emotions are so powerful and beautiful in themselves. Perhaps it is selfish, but I would like to show you these things so that I in turn could watch you as you gaze upon them and be glad. You more so than others have the light of the stars in your eyes. We elves set a great deal by both light and stars. If you stayed here to age and decay it would be a great waste. I am drawn to you, but I do not yet know why. Perhaps we have some purpose to fulfil together. I would like to find out.”

There was a moment of silence that seemed to fill even the huge expanse of the stone hall, and then;

“Okay.” Dan said simply.

Phil nodded. He stood up, gazing down the corridor. “We must say goodbyes, and gather the necessary supplies.”

Dan stood up and, with a deep breath, took a deliberate step closer to Phil. He forced himself to meet Phil’s questioning gaze. “Thank you.” He said quietly.

Phil’s expression softened. “There is no need for thanks. We are each other’s escape.” He held out a hand, and Dan took it. They shook.

“Oh, for Theoden’s sake.” Josur said from behind a crate of cabbages.

*

Dan and Phil stood at the crest of a hill, looking out across the grassy plains of Rohan, now grey in the purple twilight.

“Elenya. Stars’ day. It is the first day of a new Elvish week, which makes the count three days since we met,” Phil said quietly. “But I feel as if I know you as I know my own kin.”

Dan let his eyes dip and climb the rolling hills and pastures just visible in the fading light. “I’m scared.”

“We can still turn back. We’re still within the lands of Helm’s Deep. We haven’t run yet, merely taken a stroll.”

Dan shook his head. “I’m sure. I don’t think I’ve ever been so sure of something in my life. But i’m still scared. I don’t know what’s out there. A lot of Orcs. And war. We didn’t exactly pick the best time to go holidaying.”

“It may be the last chance there is.”

“I know that. Phil?”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell me your real name?”

“It is Ladrengil.”

“What does it mean?”

“Valley of stars.”

And as Dan looked up, the first constellations peeked sparkling and silver through the veil of cloud, and the valley below them was grey and blue but for a ribbon of water twisting through the glades and reflecting white the light of the shimmering moon, and then the light of the stars were in Phil’s eyes, cerulean in daytime but now the precise shade of midnight as he leaned forwards to press his lips against Dan’s.

 

 


End file.
